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THE GREAT RIVER 



THE 
GREAT RIVER 



POEMS AND 
PICTURES 



lAHTHOq 




BY 



FREDERICK OAKES 
SYLVESTER 



CHICAGO 

1 9 n 



THE 
GREAT RIVER 



POEMS AND 
PICTURES 




BY 

FREDERICK OAKES 
SYLVESTER 



CHICAGO 
1911 



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COPYRIGHTED. 1911 

BY 

FREDERICK OAKES SYLVESTER 



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O river, river, never yet 
Was half your glory sung; 
And never skill of painter's brush 
Nor praise of poet's tongue 
Shall half reveal the majesty, 
The charm, the primal grace 
That clothe you and attend your ways 
And shine from out your face. 



THE GREAT RIVER 



H3VIH TA3HO 3HT 




THE GREAT RIVER 

Y the red man's grave and the 

ancient trail, 
By cabin and camp I glide. 
Dark pines o'er which the eagles 

sail 
Stand guardians at my side. 



In a cradle of gentle hills I wake, 

I nurse and sleep on the breast of a lake — 

And when my first full leap I take, 

I tremble in my pride. 



By the fields of wheat and the fields of com, 

By forest and isles I flow. 

Now shadowed by dusk, now mirror of mom, 

Far down to the sea I go. 

I join the mirth of a thousand rills 

That laugh in the meadows and dance on the 

hills, 
My song the path of the springtime thrills 
And the tide of the pathless snow. 



By the great gray cliffs and the prairies wide, 

By valley and farm I speed. 

Fair Heaven I clasp, a willing bride. 

To my ocean home to lead; 

Her garments of gold and azure light 

I fashion anew in our onward flight, 

I double the jewels she wears at night. 

Her every mood I heed. 

By the fiery kilns and the noisy marts, 

By city and town I race, 

The smiles and tears of a million hearts 

Are mirrored in my face; 

The kiss and the curse, the sob and the song, 

The cry of the weak and the shout of the 

strong — 
I gather them all as I hurry along. 
And scatter them all apace. 

By the deep bayou and the broad lagoon, 
By the ranch and the range I roll; 



The silver sheen of the southern moon 

I offer the sea as toll. 

I throw the delta gateways wide 

In my rush to the deep, and, side by side 

And hand in hand with the welcoming tide 

I reach my journey's goal. 



s 



THE FATHER'S SMILE 






aJIM2 a'HaHTAT sht 



THE FATHER'S SMILE 




HE river, they claim, is turbid 

and dark, 
The river is grimed and gray, 
But I have seen a crown of 

gold 
On its head at close of day. 



And I have seen a silver seal 
Aglow upon its breast, 
A silver seal with the grace of Him 
Who clothes the East and West. 

And I have seen a royal robe 
Agleam from hem to hem 
With all the crystal loveliness 
Of jewel and of gem. 



And I have heard a secret sound 
As the river flows along. 
That seems above the twilight hills, 
The river's evening song. 



And I have caught a wondrous light- 
Methinks I see it yet, 
A wonder-light whose wistfulness 
One never can forget. 

For it is filled with mystery, 
Yet full of joy the while, 
And I have loved to think of it 
As the mighty Father's smile. 



THE FATHER OF WATERS 



vm^FT" 



mSSSSSSmE,S, I have painted you 

Yin every mood — 
When sunshine woo'd 
Your smile and filtered through 
Your being; when 
The world of men, 
Within the hive, nor knew 
Nor understood. 
Feigning brotherhood, 
How into love our friendship grew. 



We know each other well; 

We laughed and sang 

Together; pang 

Of passion felt ; the spell 

Of languor, rage; 

The open page 

Of peace have known, and swell 

Of life when Spring's 

Warm flood-tide brings 

The roses back to hill and dell. 



Childhood and youth in me 
And strength of years, 
Sunshine and tears, 
With these in you agree. 
Something each feels 
In each reveals 
Oneness with Infinity; 
Yet each, intact, 
Owns power to act. 
Free being and identity. 



? 



THEN. IP EVER, COME PERFECT ^J^YS 




3YAa TDa^Hsq amod ,Jiava ^i ,vt3HT 




HAVE come back, my river, 
I have returned to you. 
In my journeys, far and near, 
I have found no stream your peer, 
Nor found your equal in the whole 
worid through. 



I have come back, my river, 
I have delayed too long; 
But the notes of other streams, 
That have murmured in my dreams, 
Have hushed their voices in your great home 
song. 



I have come back, my river. 

No more we two shall part, 

For I love the length of you — 

And the breadth and strength of you — 

And all your wealth of wonder fills my heart. 




ELSAH 

NOW ye the hills of Elsah 
That range by the river's side, 
Where quaint, old-fashioned 

houses 
Behind the fir trees hide? 



Know ye the vales of Elsah 
That run from the water's edge, 
With shady pathways leading 
Upward to cliff and ledge? 

Know ye the life of Elsah, 
Elsah asleep by the stream. 
With trembling lips that murmur 
The World's name in her dream? 



Time was — when the years were younger — 
That Elsah was half a bride, 
And the Worid, that is ever a bridegroom. 
Lingered and sang at her side. 



But the song that thrilled her bosom 
And the rose that graced her hair 
Are things of the past, forgotten 
By the singer who placed them there. 




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aaa hasuh io 83Yh 3HT tahw 




THE GLORY OF THE HILLS 

HERE is a glory of the Elsah hills 
That shall forever win my songs of 

praise. 
Have I not felt it countless nights 

and days? 
Is it a little thing when wonder 
fills 
The soul and one's whole being wakes and 

thrills 
To beauty? 'Tis my wont to gaze and gaze, 
Spellbound, above the three great waterways 
That gladden the eyes of Elsah as she wills. 
Adown the sun-bathed slopes and through the 

trees 
As far as vision goes the mighty streams 
Mirror the sky, while field and grove and 

space 
Mingle and merge in tender harmonies 
That change the life of Elsah into dreams 
And radiate a glory round her face. 




THE RIVAL OF THE RHINE 






^iimx^si^ixm^ 



3HIHH aHT ^O JAVIH SHT 



ELSAH 



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HE sits between the hills to East 

SI and West 
I And bends her graceful arms along 
the stream; 
Her eyes are focused far, as eyes 

that seem 

To look beyond, yet glow with vague unrest ; 
Her hair falls gently round her virgin breast 
And through its folds her snowy bosoms 

gleam — 
From outward beauty one would surely deem 
That she with all the river's gifts was blessed. 
And so she was and is, and yet, alas! 
A fatal thing she nourishes, for lo! 
She gives an alien child her breasts to nurse, 
Whose lips are iron and whose heart is brass, 
And, dreaming, does not realize nor know 
Its very touch a menace is and curse. 




ND art thou smiling, Elsah, 
And dost thou sing a song, 
Nor know the World — ^that woo'd 

thee once — 
Now worketh thee a wrong? 



Thy gifts and garlands gladly 
Thou gavest years ago, 
The fruits of thy goodly harvesting, 
The wine of thy heart's deep glow; 

But the World was restless and roving 
And lightly valued thy gifts. 
For the will of the World is wayward grown, 
And often its fancy drifts ; 



Drifts and forever wanders, 

Seeking the strange and new. 

For never a time in the life of the World 

Has the love of the World proved true. 



And the voice that sounds as music, 
And the touch that seems caress, 
Will crash as lightning through thy heart 
And mock thy nakedness. 

Yea, naught of thy virgin glory 
The lust of the World will spare — 
Till thou shalt hide thy breast for shame 
In the folds of thy matted hair. 

O spirit of living beauty, 

Ere this be Elsah's fate, 

May the tide of the mighty stream of streams 

Unbar its ancient gate 

And bear the form of Elsah 

To its home within the deep. 

To the arms of the ocean and lap of the sea 

In one eternal sleep! 



THE TEMPLED HILLS 



irH 



3JJIH aaj^NiaT sht 



THE SONG OF THE HILLS 



AVE I not lived at Elsah, 

HAnd climbed the Elsah hills 
And stood aloft on Elsah 's cliffs 
And felt, with heart-deep thrills, 
The glory of the sunset. 
The purple Grafton heights, 
The Mississippi's burnished gold 
Aglow with a million lights? 




Have I not watched the twilight 
Cradle the land in dreams, 
And seen the shadows lull to sleep 
The eyes of the wakeful streams? 
The earth-red chief, Missouri, 
Restless, unfettered and wild, 
The Illinois, a maiden fair, 
Half woman and half child? 



Have I not oft kept vigil 

With star and moon and mom, 

And heard the Father's chantings join 



In the sunrise chant of the com; 

Or caught the song the wheatfields 

Sing to the summer skies; 

Known Spring's young touch and Autumn's 

charm 
When the haze o'er the lowland lies? 

Have I not felt the vastness 

And primal sense of things 

Stir my whole being into deep 

Eternal questionings; 

Yea, thrilled with joy and wonder, 

As thought to vision grew, 

And found a beauty more complete 

Than the outward senses view? 



Then speak not of the cities 
Where men with men contend, 
And man, God-like, divinely made, 
Men do not comprehend; 



Where sense views sense-inventions 
And credits itself alone, 
Where man-made men beget in belief 
Children they call their own. 

But speak, if you can, of a city 

Which cherishes Nature's gifts. 

And the chaff of envy and hatred and strife 

From the wheat of holiness sifts; 

Where thought sees deeper than seeming, 

Seeking an infinite Cause; 

Where self blocks none of the streets with 

greed. 
And fear forms none of the laws. 




ND do you love my river, 
My stream of the tawny tones, 
And do you find its world, indeed, 
The rarest beauty owns? 



Oh, I have seen it waken 
To welcome home the dawn. 
And I have seen its eyelids close 
When the veil of night is drawn ! 

Yea, I have heard its laughter, 
Have seen its glorious smile, 
And I have felt it leap for joy 
And shout for joy the while. 

What speed on wind-swept courses. 
What races 'gainst the breeze ! 
What secret pauses, songs and dreams 
Under the brooding trees ! 

The hills clasp hands by its borders, 
The forests sing by its side. 



While the prairies that rival the ocean's realm 
Surge round it far and wide. 

It is blood of the vales and the valleys, 

It is wine for flower and tree, 

It is pulse of the plains, the meadows' veins 

And the land's great artery. 

I know you love my river — 
God grant you know its worth; 
For He made it fair beyond compare, 
The king of the rivers of earth. 



THE MIRROR 



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-.-2 



HOHHIM aHT 



REFLECTION 



MIRROR, immense and perfect 

A and grand, 

Is the river to-day with its frame 

of land. 
The lowlands of grain give a fillet 
of gold 

And the cliffs' steady rise, majestic and bold, 
Makes a moulding to harmonize, crown and 

enclose, 
This sunny, reflecting, great stream as it flows. 




The breath of the wind no dimness hath made 
On the clear, lucent surface, no fingers have 

laid 
In wave touch to shadow or ripple the deep, 
And even the current seems fallen asleep, 
But out of its depth, in beauty and grace, 
Beams the image of heaven's dear, wonderful 

face. 



THE AWAKENING 




«r!^£Sii 



HIS mom I saw the eastern sky 

aflame 
With sunrise colors, rose and blue 

and gold. 
The mighty river heaven seemed to 

hold 

By just a thread-like breeze, till it became 
E'en as a steed whose spirit is made tame 
From very force of tenderness. The bold 
Dark cliffs were modelled in heroic mold 
Against the depths from whence the glory came, 
Lavender toned and purple were the hills. 
The river waves like opal rose leaves lay, 
All scattered by the breeze, until the stream 
Grew dappled with the petals' splendor. Thrills 
Of joy surged through my heart, and I no day 
Shall see to dim the sweetness of this dream. 



" 




'HE EDGE OF THE ANCIENT FOREST 



-J 



TsaHOH TwaiDHA aHT HO aoaa aHT 



FATE 




LITTLE while, and thou shalt say 

adieu 
And leave this sheltered spot that 

gave thee birth. 
A little while, fair tree, and that 
dear earth. 

So tightly held, shall slip like quicksand through 
Thy grasp, and thou no more the kiss of dew 
Shalt feel; no more the stars thy form shall 

girth; 
Nor shall thy leaves, all radiant with mirth, 
Sport in the heavens far within the blue. 
The river tempts thee daily with its glass 
Of magic and its borrowed gems. It mocks 
The very heavens, yea, insidious, late 
Or soon, will steal thy last gold grains and pass 
With thy weak form into the night. The locks 
Of its great den will turn and seal thy fate. 



THE FLOOD 



4?** 



ITH tawny colored mane and jaws 

W blood red, 

Down from the northern mountains 

bare and cold, 
The hungry river comes. A lion 
bold 

And famished now it seems, and swiftly tread 
Its cruel feet to crush the grain. Its head 
Swings far from side to side as if 'twould hold 
Earth's fairest treasure in its maw. Eyes rolled 
To heaven in rage, it roareth o'er the dead. 
Many a fertile garden, many a home 
In seeming shelter hidden from its sight, 
With mothers, fathers, children, safe for years 
Far from the thickets where its young cubs roam, 
It strikes in fury, plunges into night. 
And leaves a wilderness dim with stranger's 
tears. 





PORTAL OF TREES 



aaaHT ao JATaoq sht 



HMHMl O see these lilac bushes all abloom* 

TO Nature, is enough of joy to fill 
The soul — and yet you give, be- 

■■■■pi sides, this hill, 

^^^ So temple like, with great fair trees 

MMiJI that plume 
Themselves incessantly. Ah, scarcely room 
Have I within my heart for this — this still 
More lovely thing that doth my being thrill: 
The mighty river where the gray cliffs loom!' 
What pride, great Nature, tempted me to boast 
That I had song or color, gifts of art 
To speak your glory or to sing your praise? 
Yet will you not forgive, since I have most 
Of all wished touch of mine might some lone 

heart 
Awake to see your grace and hear your lays? 



OON in the western sky, 

MLow hills, and then the great wide 
stream, 
And tall, dark trees against the gleam 
Of star and lighted cloud and even- 
ing's gold — 

Oh, what, I ask, does the gift of heaven hold 
More wonderful, more fair? 
And yet, your waving hair, 
Catching the glint and glow of burnished rays 
That color and illumine with a maze 
Of loveliness your brow, your eyes, your lips. 
Your throat's deep curve, your hands, your 

finger tips — 
Gives to my picture life and wealth of grace 
That lifeless seems without your happy face. 



v-mfiiBja: 



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MY SYMPHOHY 



YMOHqMY8 YM 



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T thought of you, my river, 
The tears are in my eyes, 
And all the restless world is gray 
And gray the narrow skies. 



I miss the great wide prairies, 
The range of sky and space. 
And Oh ! I miss, far more than all, 
The sunlight of your face 

That comes as comes the morning, 
A glory and delight; 
That leads the evening down the worid 
And haunts the ways of night. 



O river, though I tarry 
Within the crowded mart, 
You have my spirit, river mine, 
Your smile has all my heart. 



I 



V^:^ 



GIVE you, O River, my sheaf of song 
To bear on your breast away; 
It is half of it broken, and half un- 
spoken, 
And all of it thin and gray — 
But take it, my River, and bear it 
along 
For a year and a night and a day. 

I give you, O River, my wreath of art 

To bear on your breast afar; 

It is half of it faded, and half unshaded, 

And many the faults that mar — 

But take it, my River, to hold in your heart 

As you hold the Evening star. 

I give you, O River, my crown of years 

To bear on your breast for aye; 

It is half of it real and half ideal 

And all of it passing away — 

But take it, my River, though wet with my tears, 

A joy at the end of the day. 




SONNET is a poet's orchestra 

And he the leader, with his wand of 
rhyme; 

Fair words, sweet sounds his great 
musicians are 

And faultlessly they follow him in 
time; 
Now faint and tremulous as breath of Spring 
When Winter's frozen tears dissolve in dew — 
Now thrilled with soft melodic strains that bring 
Visions of happiness and joy; and through 
This harmony a deeper chord of love 
Gathers and swells from far off worids unknown, 
Rising in great triumphant waves above, 
And culminates in one grand, throbbing tone — 
Then dies away, as Summer's blooms depart, 
Leaving the Autumn richness in the heart. 



A 



SENSE of Time and Space and 

Worlds afar, 
Of friendliness of sea and sunlit 

dome, 
Of childhood ripples wandering 
from home, 
Yet never deep enough the scene to mar; 
Anon a wave above some hidden bar 
Buries in tears the heart that loved to roam, 
Then billows headlong plunge into the foam, 
Battling to win a gleam of Fame's white star — 
Thus, from the ocean of its birth, the soul 
Follows the flood-tide's flow and breasts the 

worid. 
A moment's rainbow wreath is held by some, 
Yet the ebb-tide claims them all in backward 

roll; 
Then one last gleam upon a sail unfurled — 
A sense of Time and Space and Worids to come. 



THE ACROPOLIS 



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aiJOqOHDA 3HT 




LAS, I cannot paint that wondrous 

A green 

Of sun-kissed trees against the dis- 
tant blue, 
Though it has haunted me the sum- 
mer through ! 
Each evening, when its glory I have seen 
Beyond the veil of space which floats between 
Its loveliness and me, I've felt each hue 
Stir all my heart; yet, though I constant woo, 
It holds its royal reign, a vestal queen. 
So beautiful, so subtile and so fair, 
So all-sufficient and so calm, shall skill 
Or love of mine ne'er lead thee to reveal 
The secret of that loveliness? I'll dare 
Ten thousand tints, if I at last may thrill 
To find my brush speaks all I see and feel ! 



THE CLOUDS' ARENA 



:.a!ft®i?C]?: Sr*;*»i*»»3)" 



AVI3HA 'aaUOJD 3HT 




OW good it is to watch the wind at 

Hpiay, 
High in the heavens and the fields 

of space ! 
Now as a runner, eager for the race, 
It speeds exultant down the sunlit way ; 
Or, like a shepherd, seeks the clouds that stray, 
The fleecy flocks of clouds that know its face, 
And Oh, with what idyllic charm and grace 
They sport and frolic, questioning its sway ! 
Sometimes, a mountaineer, it leaps the crest 
Of more than mountain heights of clouds and hurls 
An avalanche adown the canyon sky. 
At night, perchance, its giant pinions rest — 
Or do they cleave their way to other worlds 
That in such great profusion crowd the eye? 




O brush could ever paint this winter 

N scene — 

These twilight trees against the 

sombre sky, 
Lifting their naked branches far on 

high. 

The faded face of Heaven looks between 
The leafless limbs through frozen tears, the keen 
Wild wind of night that fiercely rushes by 
Furrows her brow, while boughs, like wrinkles, lie 
Over the cheeks where roses once were seen. 
Some mighty etcher, gifted with a line 
Swift as the wind, clear cut, and more than sure, 
Could here behold a motive strangely grand, 
Here feel an impulse born of power divine 
Inspire his stroke with something to endure 
Beyond the transient labor of the hand ! 




ERE hath the Word of God an epic 

Hmade — 
Here grouped these stately mount- 
ains, range on range. 
The prologue is to yonder canyon 
laid, 
Which makes a pause of grandeur, wild and 

strange. 
From crest to crest heroic measures run, 
Sired of that Source of rhythm, deep and strong, 
Which formed the rhythmic radiance of the sun — 
Then break into a thousand peaks of song. 
Thought is not born, as yet, that comprehends 
The Mind that mouldeth mountains into lines 
So grand, so beautiful — that gently bends 
The lilies and so kingly rears the pines. 
And, when the sunbeams kiss the mountain's 

brow, 
I pause, and deep in admiration bow. 



GLIDES THE STREAM 





MAaHT8 aHT aaaijo jjit8 



NATURE'S SYMPHONY 



H 




:.i^.Ll 



OW much of Earth the heavens 

hold in tune! 
How much of Earth reflects what 

Heaven owns! 
The wind's mere breath hath many 
million tones, 
A glance of light from sun or star or moon 
Wins every blade of grass. The hills are hewn 
Into a thousand shapes that Heaven loans 
But for a moment. From its color zones 
Infinitudes of tints and shades are strewn. 
I hear the lyric of the leaves, the seas* 
Wild chan tings and the prairies' peaceful song. 
The miracle of dawn floods stream and foam 
With rose, and paints with wondrous harmonies 
Each plume of tree and pearl of spray. Be 

strong 
O heart, and sing that Earth is Heaven and 
Home! 



HAVE contentedly sat hours and 

I hours 

Among the roadside grasses, dumb 

with praise. 
Contentedly, said I? Yea, if to 
gaze 

In rapture at a wealth of wild wood flowers 
Makes one content. In all this world of ours 
A vague unrest disturbs the stream of days, 
And no peace lingers in the crowded ways 
Drunk with the mad supremacy of powers. 




But there is satisfaction and a large 

Contentment down among the grasses — kneel 

One little moment there, if poet's heart 

Be thine, and thou shalt then have secret charge 

Of loveliness, and in thy bosom feel 

The living springs that feed the founts of art. 



p^ 




LlVfe KA^, MVE STRONG, ANOTHER JUNE IS HEP I 



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-Jl 



3»3H 21 aHUl «3HTOMA ,OMOHT2 3VIJ .MAM SiviJ 




HIS is the perfect night of perfect 
June! 
The universal harmony sublime 
Is audible. The mighty spheres that 

climb 
The templed heavens and the full- 
orbed moon 
Lead on the starry chorus. Fancy-strewn 
With orchestras, the galaxy keeps time, 
And rolls, in unison and rhythmic rhyme, 
One grand, triumphant, million-chorded tune — 
It is Creation's own Messiah, sung 
By nature's countless choristers. The notes 
Of Mars and of the plaintive Pleiades, 
Now low, and now voluminous, are flung 
World wide. The music o'er the mountains 

floats, 
And thrills the bosom of the trembling seas. 



OD speaks, and lo, a new bom world 

G appears! 

Fair on the bosom of the universe 
Nestles the orbit of its circling years. 
Its form, in light both sun and moon 
immerse 

And gently doth it slumber and grow strong. 
Oft have I seen a star that seemed a child, 
Merry and twinkling with a silvery song; 
Oft seen stars maiden-sweet and shy, and wild 
Stars bold as youth; then great deep orbs that 

thrilled 
Me with their power. All these to God's least 

Word 
Obedient, move in peace; but man, self-willed, 
Forgetting Love doth still his being gird. 
Hears but the echo of his shoutings, hurled 
Back from the ramparts of his fortressed world. 




AJESTIC hill, that bravest every 
gale, 
The courage of a perfect love is 

thine. 
Under thy friendly lea the fright- 
ened sail 

Watches the storm-girt, wild horizon line 
Where hosts of thunder clouds are marshalling. 
They hurl the tumult of a world's unrest 
Upon thy solitude, in fury fling 
The leaping billows round thy ancient breast. 
But thou, with steadfast and with noble calm, 
Lifting thy head above the mists of fears, 
Beholdest flood on flood without alarm. 
Heedless thou art of them, as of the years 
That wash the footprints of each race from sight 
Yet leave thee firm and fearless in thy might. 




STOOD beside a pool of clearest 

I calm, 

Wherein there was reflected earth 

and sky; 
A picture in the water seemed to 
lie: 

And playfully, not meaning any harm, 
I threw a pebble there. In swift alarm 
The deep, blue tones repeated from on high 
All disappeared, and soon the place where I 
Had seen the heavens imaged lost its charm. 
In tears I waited there, desiring all 
The vanished glory to return again. 
It could not be my thoughtlessness would mar 
Its beauty and its grace beyond recall ; 
And even as I waited, even then, 
The waters caught and held the first faint star. 



APPRECIATION 




ORE beautiful to me than any dream 
Is this great universe that is my 

home. 
The art of Athens and the craft of 

Rome, 
With all the vast varieties of beam 
And arch, of statue, dance and song, I deem 
Less wondrous than the charm of heaven's dome, 
The ocean's music, traceries of foam, 
And shy, wild blossoms by the woodland stream. 
Praise be to Him who set the poet's thought 
Of rhythm in the soul, and gave to me 
The painter's sense of art and loveliness! 
Yet oft I feel my very being brought 
In touch with some transcendent harmony 
That is too fair and holy to express. 




«*'i, 1 



THE UPPER MISSISSIPPI 




I :i 



iqqi88I88IM HaqqU 3HT 




HOLD that Life hath beauty every- 
where, 

Awaiting but some faithful heart to 
thrill. 

The play of sunshine round the dis- 
tant hill, 

The folding tender reaches of the air 
That harbors every sailing cloud, the fair 
Bosom of Earth that nestles close and still 
Creature and tree and blossom — these all fill 
The soul with joy that nothing can impair. 
When light first wreathed the universe, to span 
Mountain and main and star-dim depths of space, 
Life hallowed it with beauty and with song 
To quicken and sustain the hope of man. 
Sweeten his faith and give him power to face 
The claims of imperfection and be strong. 



AN IDEAL 




HERE is a voice, alas! too often 

heard 
Among the crowded ways of men, 

that makes 
A discord with eternal things, and 

breaks 

Upon Life's harmony with jarring word. 
What answer know we for the song of bird 
Or birth of Spring, when lust of riches takes 
The light and music from the soul, nor wakes 
One chord of joy by which the heart is stirred? 
Oh, give me less of wealth, of fame, of skill, 
If but the rhythm of the seas and streams 
May move me into song; if speech of mine 
May win an echo from the wooded hill, 
Or tune with stars and mountains — if in dreams 
I see a kingdom real and divine ! 






H, let it not be said of me, dear 

friends, 

That to my heart the outward view 

of things 
Is profitless; that no emotion 
springs 

From Nature's open founts and daily sends 
Its rivulets of joy to me — yea, wends 
A clear, enchanting, happy stream that sings 
Of sights and sounds and secret wonderings, 
And in a sea of sweet contentment ends. 



I love the worid for every ray of light. 
For all the gifts and mysteries of air. 
For what I feel and fancy forth in dreams; 
But, most, I love that inner, deathless sight, 
That vision which reveals a sure and fair 
Reality, transcending all that seems. 



AS ■"HE SOWING THE « J Ai 'NG 





oniqAaH aHT omwoa hht aA 



IMMANUEL 



Tm 



CANNOT bear to think the little 

1 child 

Who walks beside me with the 

trustful eyes 
May sometime be less loving and 
more wise; 

And yet, I know the rosy face that smiled 
To-day, and yester-mom amid the wild 
Spring grasses laughed in glee, to-morrow's skies 
Will cloud, and doubt and shadows will arise 
To which his trust cannot be reconciled. 



Then pity for the heart in armor clad, 
Forced by the world to shield its happiness 
Beneath a breast-plate of reserve and pride; 
But praise unending if the growing lad. 
Spuming hate's helmet, Love's sweet nakedness 
Shall choose — and feel God ever by his side ! 




LIKE the man who has deep faith 

I in men, 

Who has abiding trust in each 

and all, 
Who doubts not one, nor hesitates 

to call 

The least or lowliest his brother. Ten, 
Yea, and a hundred times he pardons, when. 
Forgetful of their higher selves, they fall; 
Who leads them, as did David hapless Saul, 
Back to the thought of healing Good again. 
But, more than this, I like the man who goes 
Not songless to the common tasks of life, 
But twines a flower round his tools of trade ; 
Who boasts not what he does nor what he knows; 
Who brings no sword but Love to conquer strife, 
And, king of self, of nothing is afraid. 



r 



THE HOME ROAD 



'■'■fiS.^}U-.^:<-i^'" 



QAOH aWOH HHT 



RIEVE not, dear heart, because thy 

G pathway leads 

Along the common hedgerows of the 

earth, 
And simple tasks have been thy lot 

since birth; 

There are strange beauties in the roadside weeds 
That wait discovery, and none but needs 
Interpreting. 'Tis rash to measure worth 
On borrowed scales, for 'mid a seeming dearth 
Of opportunities may rise great deeds. 
There is no work too small to merit praise, 
No gift of love the Infinite disdains; 
And oft amid life's simple happenings. 
Its humble walks, and half forgotten ways. 
The worth of manly effort well sustains 
The soul to greatness in God's highest things. 




HE sonnet came as comes the honey 

Tcomb, 
A wondrous wealth of nectar-laden 

cells, 
Wherein both Art and Nature's spirit 

dwells. 

Beyond the mountains dim the bee may roam, 
Far over seas, above the crested foam, 
Or down amid the meadows or the dells; 
Yea, through the crowded gates of citadels 
May bring the stores of golden sunshine home. 
The universe is but a poet's flower, 
And 'mid its starry petals manifold 
He seeks eternal treasure for his song. 
The heritage of one transcendent hour, 
The sonnet doth the hoards of ages hold. 
While worlds of busy workers round it throng. 



VENEZIA 







ECKLACE of coral and mosaic, hung 
Upon the breast of sweet Italia, 
Is sea-born, ocean-clasped Venezia. 
Each palace is a pearl whose fame 

is sung 
By deathless bards; each bridge a 
jewel strung 
With liquid threads of gold; each church a star 
Some artist crystallized and brought from far 
Off worlds of light to glow yet more among 
The myriad wonders of the strange lagoons. 
Oh, church and bridge and palace, gems of Art 
Unique, swift praise and true I give, yet feel 
More keenly deep the twilight and the moon's 
Caress change these to dreams that thrill my 

heart, 
As night's mysterious charms o'er Venice steal ! 



QUEEN OF THE ADRIATIC 



C 



m^ 



ITY of three-fold loveliness of night 
Is Venice. Star and moon and depth 

of space 
She shares alike with all; yet mark 

her grace, 
As on her bosom fair, a heavenly 
sight. 
She clusters all their glory, matching height 
With depth through liquid traceries of lace. 
And, softly breathing, bathes her eyes and face 
In silvery darkness colorful with light. 
Wings of a thousand fancies speed along 
The shadowy folds of draperies that hide. 
Yet half reveal, her wondrous form; and low 
And softly tuned to star and sea, her song 
Ripples and rings adown the sleepless tide 
With joy which only hearts that dream can know. 



AMALFI 




ALL, towering cedar trees like an- 

Tcient spears 
Stand guard o'er Cappuccini's con- 
vent cells — 
Though now no priest within the 
convent dwells 
And, downward far, Amalfi's face appears 
Sunlit, appealing, that at once endears 
Itself forever. Color, soft as a shell's 
Pearl lustre, in her bosom fair impels 
Emotions only satisfied by tears. 
And when the moon above the summer sea 
Traces a path of glory o'er the deep. 
Greeting Amalfi with a soft caress. 
And flooding all the world with mystery. 
Dead is the heart that shall not proudly weep 
For joy, o'er filled with too great happiness. 



LAGO DI COMO 






OVE-gray and blue and iridescent 

D sheen 

Of opal plumage circling neck and 

breast 
Of doves, where color is the 

loveliest, 

Is but a moment's mirror of the green 
And sapphire, rose and olive, I have seen 
Flooding the mountain range from base to crest 
Above Bellagio, that kingliest 
Great pearl of splendor, pendant-like between 
The beautiful Italian lakes; for all 
The notes of full, deep-chorded harmony 
Focus their radiance there at sunset. Then, 
As evening shadows over Como fall, 
They fade into a dream-bom memory 
Beyond the power of palette or of pen. 



ISCHIA 




STOOD on Capri's rugged mountain 
height 

And gazed afar upon the azure sea 

That charms the sky with its in- 
tensity. 

The fair Sorrento shore was bathed 
in light, 
And soft and silvery gray with tone that sight 
Can scarce perceive, the coast of Napoli 
Appeared, a circling arc I'd dimly see, 
Then lose, then find again with wild delight. 
Once, far beyond the utmost point of shade 
That hinted of the headlands, leaving space 
For sky and sea to mingle in what seemed 
Caress, with form so beautiful it made 
My soul rejoice, I saw pale Ischia's face, 
Fair as the loveliest world of which I've dreamed. 



A NOCTURNE 



HE sea in perfect unison of tone 

TAnd value with the heavens seemed 
to-night, 
Both as one quiet shadowy depth 

where light 
Lay sleeping; where, revealed to 
those alone 
Who have for beauty pure affection known, 
Soft color slumbered, dreaming with delight 
Of sunrise planets gaining back their sight 
And noontide worlds to fullest vision grown. 




Below the Dipper's realm, in downward line 

From high Orion, part in ocean, part 

In heaven, sang three constellations — ^first, 

Sorrento fair; then Castellemare, fine 

As Taurus; then, a feast for mind and heart, 

Great Napoli upon the vision burst. 



THE MOUNTAINS 



W 



■p 



1^ 



HAT joy it is to breathe the moun- 
tain air! 
Inhale the wondrous fragrance of the 

pines, 
Trace with the eye the rhythmic 
sweeping Hnes 
Of height that leads to height more nobly fair, 
And on to crest and peak that proudly wear 
The mantle of the stars. What beauty shines 
Down in the valleys of the columbines, 
In grace and loveliness beyond compare! 
Oh, just to be is here supreme delight! 
Just once to feel the sense of being fill 
The heart with wonder; realize the strength 
And majesty, the tenderness and might 
Of that eternal Cause whose love man will 
In gladness seek to understand at length ! 



COROT 



wm 



fmjgi^ 



LL France is fairer since Corot's 

A warm brush, 

Rich with the coloring of twilight 

time, 
Or silvery with dawn, made bloom or 

blush 

Of these, poetic as a poet's rhyme. 
He found a rhythm in the hills and trees, 
A music in the depths of silent lakes, 
A chann in cloud and space, and symphonies 
In ever5rthing. It is his vision makes 
France fairer since he lived, and on her breast 
Proudly she wears his colors now. Her heart, 
With love all nations well may manifest. 
Burns vestal lamps before the shrine of Art 
To honor him and cheer with welcoming light 
Some new Corot up-struggling through the night. 



INNESS 






UTUMN returns, but Inness is no 

A more. 

His widowed palette, bride of happy 

years, 
Hath laid aside her glorious dress, 
and o'er 

Her form like sackcloth lies the dust. Fall, tears 
Of rain, and hide the purple hills in mist! 
Weep, oh, ye clouds, and dim the golden trees ! 
Stilled is the heart of our great colorist 
And stilled the hand that caught your harmonies. 
Yet, by the gift that speeds the sunbeams 

through 
The sudden storm, that makes the rainbow's 

birth 
A concord sweet of sun and rain till new 
And fairer glory fills both heaven and earth, 
The beauty Inness wrought shall live, a light 
Of joy, through seeming loss to holier sight. 




IGHT broods o'er Bethlehem, and 

faintly, far 
Among the mountains, some lost 

lamb's lone bleat 
The silence breaks; and, save one 
strange, deep star 
That shines transcendent, darkness reigns 

complete. 
But look, some light illumines with its gleams 
The trembling shepherds and their sheep; it fills 
The fields with one vast flood of brilliant beams, 
In grand, majestic glory gilds the hills! 
Then high o'erhead the hosts of angels sing 
Paeans of praise. From mount to mount the 

waves 
Of music roll, and all the heavens ring 
With joy; earth echoes to its deepest caves. 
All hail, all hail to Christ, the Lord, again! 
All hail, and peace on earth, good will to men! 



THE ANNUNCIATION 




AIR thoughts, more beautiful than 

r flowers, filled 

With fragrance Mary's girlhood. 

Lovingly 
She cherished them and felt them 
grow, and stilled 
The winds of earth about them, constantly 
Watching and waiting for their promise. Fears 
She met with faith, and listened for the Word; 
Yet wept, with sun-lit glory through her tears. 
When, soft within, the Christ-child song she 

heard. 
Sweet was the prelude of her motherhood, 
A music rich with mystery and praise — 
Ofttimes its notes she fully understood — 
Until the concord of that day of days, 
That perfect harmony of Christmas mom, 
When unto all the world the King was bom. 




HE Inn is crowded now," the keeper 
said — 
And so, two thousand years ago to- 
day, 
They turned the mother of our Lord 
away! 

Within a manger near, a baby's bed 
She made, and for the coming Christ-child's head 
She formed a Uttle pillow of the hay. 
At dawn she kissed the lips God taught to pray — 
Whose prayers healed the sick and raised the 

dead. 
O crowded heart, with all thy worldly guests. 
Hast thou a better gift for Christ this mom? 
Is there in thee a room unoccupied, 
Not filled with self or strife, where no greed rests. 
Wherein the Child of Spirit may be bom? 
Oh, then, rejoice, for God is glorified ! 




F I could paint and put on canvas 

I all 

My dreams of the Madonna's moth- 
erhood, 
I'd choose the deep, rich tones of 
some old wood 
Of leafy trees as background, like a wall 
Of twilit evergreen, and then let fall 
Great, golden beams of radiant light which 

should 
Illuminate the Christ-child's form. One could 
But love His glorious mission to recall. 
Tender as tinted cirrus clouds of rose 
I'd touch the virgin's bended head, and gild 
A halo round her holy brow. Her face, 
In ecstasy, the rapture would disclose 
Of love triumphant, and her eyes be filled 
With God's sublime divinity and grace. 




HE MIGHTY STREAM 







MAHHTa YTHOIM SHT 




HE rivers of thought are broad and 

deep, 
The rivers of thought are long, 
And the rivers of thought are fair, 

indeed. 
That flow from the springs of song 



For the springs of song are the springs of life, 
And right from the heart they rise, 
They are crystal clear as the sunbeams are 
That range the open skies. 

They are crystal clear and flowing free 
And filled with joy supreme, 
And the only vessel to hold .their wine 
Is the heart of a golden dream. 



The heart of a golden dream will hold 
The wonderful wine of song 
That gives the soul of the singer strength 
And makes the listeners strong. 



THE OPEN SECRET 




ND would'st thou search, O 

layman, 
The secret springs of art — 
Know what the hidden 

motives are 
That stir the artist's heart? 



And would'st thou ask the singer 
From what sequestered fount 
His songs arise, that gird the world 
And to the heavens mount? 

Would'st know, as well, what power 
Launches the poet's rhyme, 
And speeds its course beyond the stars 
And boundaries of time? 



Then ask of the light what magic 
It mixes with its beams. 
Transforming sky and sea and sward 
Into a world of dreams; 



Inquire of the wild wood flower 
What bids it bend with grace 
And perfume all the forest aisles 
And clerestories of space ; 

Implore of the bird what rapture 

Pulses its priceless throat 

Till its song becomes the herald of Spring, 

And the world awakes to its note. 

And, should these give thee answer, 
Their voice shall seem thine own, 
And leap within thee, pure and sweet 
As a Word from God's great throne, 

To tell thee every motive 
That prompts the human heart 
To do its best, for the best it feels 
Is rife with the Truth of Art. 




HREE clouds there were, the story 
goes, 
Athwart the evening sky; 
One was a barque of silver gray, 
And one of gold that sailed away, 
And one that lifted its sails on high 
Was all of a wonderful rose. 



Three artists saw, the story goes. 
The clouds in the evening sky; 
One of them painted the ship of gray. 
And one the gold that sailed away. 
And one the vision that lifted high 
Its sails of wonderful rose. 



Three hundred years, the story goes. 
Count naught with the evening sky; 
But one of the pictures lost its gray. 
In one the gold all faded away — 
But the one that lifted its sails on high 
Is still of a wonderful rose. 





p^\ 



TaaHd TvimoviA 3ht mi jooq 3Ht 




HERE'S a pool in the ancient forest," 
The painter-poet said, 
"That is violet-blue and emerald 
From the face of the sky o'erhead." 

So, far in the ancient forest. 

To the heart of the wood went I, 

But found no pool of emerald, 

No violet-blue for sky. 

* 'There's a pool in the ancient forest,** 
Said the painter-poet still, 
"That is violet-blue and emerald. 
Near the breast of a rose-green hill." 

And the heart of the ancient forest 

The painter-poet drew, 

And painted a pool of emerald 

That thrilled me through and through. 

Then back to the ancient forest 
I went with a strange, wild thrill. 
And I found the pool of emerald, 
Near the breast of the rose-green hill. 




HE gray dusk covers the moorlands 

wide 
To the sky's low rift of rose, 
And tears in the dreams of the world 

abide — 
But my heart a sweet song knows, 
My heart a sweet song knows. 



The gray dusk covers the marsh and the stream 

To the sky's low glint of gold. 

And tears still flow from the world's mad dream — 

But a song in my heart I hold, 

A song in my heart I hold. 




SOFT TWILIGHT LINGERS 



aaaonij thoiji\a^t T-^oa 



STRETCH of darkening water, 
And mountains far away, 
And over the world the shadow 
Of half departing day — 

Save one soft cloud of coral, 
And a group of sun-kissed trees, 

And all of the rest a twilight 

Of minor symphonies. 




Yet, when the dusk shall deepen 
And fill the wells of space, 
The little cloud will linger 
As the sweetness of a face. 



And the sun-kissed trees be golden, 
Like a smile within the heart. 
As long as the world goes dreaming 
And dreams are the life of Art. 



I 




HEAR the wind in the pine trees 
And the answering song of the 

cones, 
And the thousands of reed-like 

needles 
Scatter its silvery tones. 



And the wind goes down the valley 
And over the mountain leaps, 
But my heart, my heart, forever 
The song of the pine tree keeps. 





fE STREAM OF THE ANCl;ENT^ 
ARROW MAKERS M 





THaiDMA JHT 10 MAaHT^ ilHT 

anaxAM wohha 




ERE arrows names for all 
the trees 
That grow along the river, 
A dozen shots would soon 

exhaust 
My modest little quiver. 



The arrows are of common use, 
Heavy and blunt and olden, 
Cedar and oak and pine they are, 
But each is winged and golden ; 



For each doth bend a bow of praise, 
Doth leap the stars and capture 
The painter's vision of the world 
And all the skies' sweet rapture. 



i; i^ 





E MIRACLE OF SPRING 




OHIHqS "510 aJDAHIM aHT 




HE Southwind merrily passed my 
home 
On its way to the hills beyond — 
I heard it call to the sleeping trees 
And I heard the trees respond. 



They had lain asleep for a month and a day, 

For a day and a month and more, 

But they caught the call of the Southwind's 

voice 
As it journeyed past my door. 

And they answered each with a burst of bloom, 
With a ripple of rose and green, 
From the heart of the woods the answer came, 
A song with a silvery sheen; 



From the heart of the woods to the heart of the 
stream, 

A perfumed song and thrill, 

As an ecstasy over the fields it went. 

As a miracle over the hill. 



And the silver sheen was the silvery dress, 
And the song was the voice of Spring, 
But the wonderful thrill was the heart's delight , 
A deep and a glorious thing. 

And all of the world and all of its ways. 

Its pomp and its ultimate goal, 

Are small compared with the heart's great 

Spring, 
New bom in the human soul. 



i^..^j!t^ 



O voice comes over the sea of sound 

NBut the sigh of the surf-swept bar, 
No beacon over the shores of sight 
But the flickering gleam of a star ; 
Yet soon Earth's brow will be laurel- 
crowned 

With the blossomed bough's delight, 
And the welcome note from a bird's sweet throat 
Throw the wealth of Spring afar. 



No dawn comes over the shores of sight 

But the face of one in tears, 

No voice comes over the sea of sound 

But the sorrowful cry of the years; 

Yet still we dream of a primal right, 

A balm for every wound, 

And a glad heart song of a singer strong 

To heal the great world's fears. 




N the heart of an ancient city— 
I heard the wise men tell — 
Is a stately hall of learning 
Where the priests of knowledge 
dwell ; 



And the doors of the world of hearing 
And the gates of the worid of sight 
Are open to him that keepeth 
Its altar fires alight. 

So I went to the ancient city, 

A child I journeyed there, 

And the hall of the priests of learning 

Was wonderful and fair; 



And the gates of the world of seeing 
And the doors of the worid of sound 
Were opened with light and music — 
But age in my heart I found. 



% 



IE r^LISAl'ES JF THY Vl--;SISSIP- 



4 II 

i1 i! 



iqqi32I28IM 3HT HO g3aA3[JAq 3HT 




OU cannot turn the portals back, 
Nor close the doors of Spring, 
For I have felt the zephyr's touch 
And down the vernal vistas 

heard the north-bound blue-bird 

sing! 



You cannot Winter's flag unfurl 
Above the storm king's towers, 
For I have touched Spring's garment's hem 
And o'er the trembling mountains 
caught the perfume of the flowers ! 



THE RIVER'S EVENING SONG 



ovioz oviinava a'naviH hht 




HEN I shall cease to listen 
And be alert to see 
The miracle of Spring and 

dawn, 
The blossoming of tree, 



And fail at eve to wonder 
And watch the circling stars, 
The little silver Pleiades, 
The ruddy crest of Mars — 

When I shall care no longer 
To praise the mighty stream, 
Or sail the great horizon's course 
And linger there and dream — 



Then let the thread be broken. 

The little golden thread. 

For, when no more these thrill my heart. 

Myself might well be dead! 



21 llf 



GENERAL EDITION 

THIS BOOK WAS PRINTED BY 
THE PUBLISHERS' PRESS^ 
CHICAGO, DURING THE FALL 
OF 1911. THE EDITION IS LIMITED 
TO FOUR HUNDRED COPIES. THE 
FRONTISPIECE IS A PLATINUM 
PHOTOGRAPH OF THE AUTHOR 
BY MR. TAKUMA KAJIWARA. THE 
HALFTONES WERE MADE FROM 
THE ORIGINAL PAINTINGS BY 
MR. SYLVESTER. 














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